


Adapter

by the_ragnarok



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Clocks, Communication Failure, M/M, Multi, Non-Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Other, Relationship Negotiation, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-09
Updated: 2018-02-09
Packaged: 2019-03-16 00:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13624926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Cyclonus and Tailgate are having relationship issues again. Whirl tries to help.





	Adapter

The clock is wrong. Whirl isn't sure what's wrong with it, precisely. He just knows the feeling of getting a clock right, and this isn't it.

He flings it against the wall, where it shatters into small components. Whirl is good with angles, has experience in this. No clumsy bounce-backs for him. When he throws scrap at the wall, that scrap gets destroyed.

He spends a moment looking at the glittering pieces strewn across the floor, then gets a broom.

~~

Cyclonus is brooding at the corner of the bar. He's going at it pretty hard; champion brooder, Cyclonus is. Just get him some eggs to sit on and he's perfect.

That metaphor may have run away from Whirl.

Whirl parks himself on the edge of Cyclonus's bench. "Hey. What's with the face?"

Cyclonus stares up at him. "I have one," he says flatly. "Unlike some of us."

"Ouch. That smarts. Much like clawing your face. Are you gonna do that again?"

Cyclonus stills. His hardware hums louder, a rumbling threat that makes Whirl's fuel pump pick up its pace. Whirl's claws clamp and release, anticipating a fight.

"That," he says, "happened twice."

Whirl shrugs. "You don't get ice cream if you do it for the third time, I'm just saying."

"What's ice cream?" Cyclonus says, baffled. Then, when Whirl attempts to explain, waves him off. "I'm not going to do anything. What made you think that?"

"You're here," Whirl says, gesturing at the empty seat next to Cyclonus. "Unlike some minibots I won't mention, in case the sound of their name is too painful for you to hear."

"I could just be having a drink." Coming from another mech, that tone might have been mild. Coming from Cyclonus, it's a soft death threat.

Nobody makes death threats like Cyclonus. It's Whirl's favorite thing about him. "You're not, though. I can tell. I have a highly honed awareness of when you're having relationship woes. It's a skill forged by trauma."

Cyclonus looks like he wants to growl, but then he sighs hugely, exhaust rising over him like a cloud. "Some things," Cyclonus says, "are better not spoken of."

Abruptly, Whirl is out of frags to give about this situation. "Fine, whatever. I'm getting some engex. Have fun being miserable."

~~

The clock was supposed to be a classic Davoxian timepiece. Whirl doesn't know why it came out wrong. He'd made those before. They weren't complicated.

Of course, he'd had hands then.

It had taken him a very long time to learn to use his claws for anything but the most brute-force applications. Now, he could pick up a tiny cog off the floor and set it on white cloth, next to hundreds of other tiny cogs.

It used to be soothing, putting parts out there, clean and clear. Now it was strung through with the constant low-grade effort of not crushing anything, of intentionally directing every movement: his hands had known the parts, and could fit them together without conscious thought. He couldn't do that anymore.

He went very, very still until the urge to fling away every carefully collected component passed.

~~

He spots Tailgate entering the bar by noticing when Cyclonus stiffens and slinks away like a startled turbofox.

It's pretty clear Tailgate isn't having a great evening, either. He's too loud and enthusiastic when he greets Swerve, and he doesn't actually try to join in one of the circles of conversation going on around the bar.

"Oh," Tailgate says when Whirl sits next to him. "It's you."

"Try sounding a little more disappointed, maybe I'll turn into Cyclonus from sheer...." Whirl falters. "Something. Slag it. Why are you miserable?"

"Me? I'm not miserable!"

"Hi, Not Miserable," Whirl says. "I'm Not Buying This." He empties his drink and slides the cube at Swerve for a refill. "C'mon, it's embarrassing enough being your relationship counselor without having to fight you for information."

Tailgate bristles. "Nobody asked you to be!"

"I hate to tell you, but Cyclonus totally did. He came asking me for relationship advice." Whirl takes a moment to gloat, and also remember how hilarious that had been. "He never told me to dis-advise him."

"That's not a word," Tailgate mumbles. Big blue optics peer up at Whirl. "....What did he tell you?"

"Right now? Nothing useful. Which is why I'm planning to get you so drunk you tell me everything."

Tailgate's optics narrow. "That's not a very nice way of doing things."

"I'm not a very nice mech," Whirl agrees. "And if you don't like that, you could save us both time and tell me what's the fragging problem."

~~

Each Davoxian timepiece had to be unique. That wasn't so difficult: they had an array of beads in different colors, and the sheer number of possible configurations outnumbered the atoms in the universe. There was an algorithm to coming up with a new, never-before attempted configuration.

The configuration had come out fine. That wasn't why the clock was wrong. There was something else, a low and disturbing urge that Whirl couldn't put in words.

Slag it. It was wrong. That's all that Whirl needed to know.

The timepiece he made from its remains had no beads, and only the standard rudimentary display. It was a tutorial model, one Whirl could put together in his sleep (and had, a few times. Those had been a strange few weeks). A model you built just to get the hang of how to make a clock.

The tutorial model came together perfect, like it always did, identical to every single one Whirl made before it. They littered his hab suite, displays blinking. He rested the new clock on top of two other clocks, just precariously enough that he might send the whole thing smashing with a careless movement.

Those two clocks rested on a similarly precarious wall, eleven layers deep and seven clocks across. Whirl looked away from it and looked at his loose components, trying to make himself believe he could turn them into something that didn't deserve to be destroyed.

~~

Tailgate is a cuddly drunk. Figures.

"So then I told him, we could try anyway! But he wouldn't." Tailgate's optics shine wetly. He better not get his lubricant on Whirl's servos.

...Alright, it's not a completely awful thought, except for how if Cyclonus sees Whirl and Tailgate like this, Cyclonus would finally kill him for real. Slowly.

"He wouldn't even say what's wrong." Tailgate's venting hitches, sticking in mid-cycle. "Just turned around and left me there with my port covers still open."

That's not an unappealing image, either, especially with the way Tailgate is half in Whirl's lap. Maybe Whirl ought to offer to take a look, reassure Tailgate there's nothing wrong with his ports. What scraplet could possibly have crawled up Cyclonus's exhaust pipe, to leave Tailgate like this...?

Even as he considers this, an idea comes up to Whirl. It's probably awful, and Whirl is going to go with it anyway. "Hey, Tailgate." He shakes Tailgate a bit for emphasis, just to get him out of his funk. "How do you feel about a little light breaking and entering?"

~~

Tailgate is onboard. He is literally riding on top of Whirl as they approach the medbay, locked for the night.

"Great," Whirl says, to the locked door. "Now you have to pick the lock."

Tailgate startles and nearly slides off Whirl. "I don't know how to pick locks! I thought you did!"

Whirl narrows his optic. "I can blast a hole in the wall." He knocks his claws against the door, considering. "Delicate work, not so much. Of course, there's the question: do we care?"

He's almost anticipating the deep growl that comes from the shadow. "What are you two boltheads doing?"

Tailgate _does_ fall off, then, but Cyclonus steps forward and catches him.

Sometimes Whirl thinks it would have been nice to be a minibot. Sure, Tailgate could shriek in panic and it was cute and got people holding him, but when Whirl did it he was insane and scary. Life's not fair. It probably doesn't hurt that Tailgate has hands and pretty blue optics and not....

Frag self pity. "Looking for your medical history," Whirl says. "Wanna help us break in? It'll be a bonding activity."

Cyclonus gives him a look like Whirl has several bolts coming loose. Which - fair enough. "Why would I want you seeing my medical history?"

"Because right now," Whirl says, "Tailgate is convinced there's something wrong with him, that made you not want to interface with him. But there isn't, is there? There's something wrong with _you_ , and you were scared of showing him."

Cyclonus is very still. Then he says, ragged, "I ought to blast you into scrap."

Every servo in Whirl's upper body rolls as he opens his arms wide. "Try it. It wouldn't make me wrong, just dead."

Cyclonus looks down, to where Tailgate is hanging off his arm. "No. You're right."

"Come on," Whirl goads. "Is telling him really more painful than clawing your face?"

Cyclonus says, in a tone that conveys he thinks Whirl is a complete idiot, "Yes."

Whirl shrugs. "Wait until morning," he tells Tailgate. "Ask Ratchet about it."

He's not expecting Cyclonus to grab his hand: out of all the ways his violent demise could have begun, this wasn't one Whirl considered.

"Come on," Cyclonus says, determined. "If I'm doing this, you're coming with me." Whirl tags along willingly enough, confused though he is.

~~

The Manditii clock didn't fare any better than the Davoxian piece.

"I should just learn to quit," Whirl told himself as he assembled another perfect tutorial piece. They all came right, slag it, it's just that nothing else did.

He would try a Valifrax hourdial next, he decided, if he didn't violently die before he got to it, or got tired of trying. Whatever came first.

~~

Cyclonus stands in the middle of his and Tailgate's hab suit, port covers off, cables dangling. It's almost artful in its simplicity.

Tailgate is blushing and flailing and hissing, "He's still here!" at Cyclonus.

As though Cyclonus doesn't know Whirl's here. As if that wasn't the point. Because while Tailgate is flustered, Whirl can say, "Okay, they look fine to me. What's the problem?"

"I've had my interfacing ports rebuilt in the last six million years," Cyclonus says, stilfted.

Whirl freezes, because _oh_. Of course that's it. "As opposed to certain minibots, I'm guessing?"

"I could get them rebuilt!" Tailgate says. "Why didn't you just say so?"

Cyclonus vents out a long sigh. "That's why," he says. "I don't want you undergoing unnecessary medical operations just for me."

Tailgate puffs up like he's halfway to transforming from sheer frustration. "That's not up to you! It's my frame, I can do what I want with it!"

"I can't tell you what to do," Cyclonus agrees. Tailgate hushes, but keeps giving Cyclonus suspicious looks. "But I can tell you I won't interface with you either way, so the process would be futile. I won't be the cause for you changing yourself."

Whirl's circuits buzz. "This is scrap," he declares. "Tailgate? You do what you want with your interface array. If he doesn't interface with you, I will."

Tailgate turns doubtful optics on Whirl. "Uh. Thanks...?"

"Or," Whirl continues, before Cyclonus smashes him to tiny bits, "here's a thought: how about _you_ ," he pokes Cyclonus in the cockpit, "switch around your array, if it's so important to you that he doesn't change."

Cyclonus glares at Whirl like only a cheekless former-dead-universe mech can. "I do not undergo unnecessary medical changes."

Whirl shrugs. "Depends on your definition of unnecessary, doesn't it?"

He leaves before they can drag him further into this.

~~

The wall of tutorial clocks shudders when Whirl shuts the door behind him. He sits down at his work station, contemplating parts and compatibility.

At the end of the day, it's all currents and wires, isn't it? Just a question of figuring out what goes where and making it zing. He opens his own ports, to get a look at the hardware: not the same model as either Cyclonus or, probably, Tailgate, although he could match up to Cyclonus with a standard adapter. Tailgate... who the frag knows. What kind of hardware did they all have six million years ago?

While his ports are open, Whirl gives himself a nice little zap, thinking of nothing in particular.

Maybe _nothing_ happens to resemble Tailgate in his lap, or Cyclonus's firm grip. Who knows.

Idly, he calls up specs on his screen. Some nice interface array models. Whirl jolts himself again, imagining hooking up with another hardware model. Some of the ones on the screen look deliciously challenging.

On a whim, he looks up models from the time when Tailgate was created. Given his build, it's pretty easy to guess which one he has.

Whirl clacks his claws. He picks up a small welder, humming. He's no expert on interface arrays, but he took apart an adapter or two in his time, like any curious youngster, and it seems like it would be pretty easy to route that power path over _here_ \--

Of course, when he's done, he realizes that he's created an adapter that would allow Tailgate to interface with _him_ , not with Cyclonus. He raises the new adapter to throw it at the wall, practiced.

Then he hesitates, and puts it gently down instead.

~~

Tailgate and Cyclonus are drinking together the next night, so at least that much was accomplished. Whirl nods at them as he walks to the bar.

He's not expecting to be grabbed. Cyclonus again. "Won't you join us?" Cyclonus's voice is hesitant, a little too formal, but his grip is anything but.

Whirl sits. Why the frag not. "Buy me a drink first."

He has to reset his optics from surprise when Tailgate waves at Swerve and actually buys Whirl a drink.

"We wanted to thank you," Tailgate says. "We might not be able to.... anyway, but at least we can be close, and you helped us realize that. Thanks."

Whirl has no idea how he did that, but he's willing to take credit. "You're welcome." He drinks. Then he reaches inside his subspace compartment and fishes out the second adapter he made, the one that should translate Tailgate's frequencies to Cyclonus's and vice versa. "Or you can try this. No promises it won't fry any circuits, I'm not a medic or anything, but what's life without a little risk?"

Tailgate picks up the adapter, confused, but Cyclonus gives Whirl a sharp look. Whirl girds his struts and prepares to be eviscerated.

Cyclonus says, "Thank you," honest and stilted. Tailgate is still staring.

They have the adapter; it's too late for Whirl to grab it and destroy it. He gulps his drinks, sets down the cube and gets up. "Have fun. Don't do anything I would do." He leaves before things can get any more awkward.

~~

Whirl is trying to decide what to try making next when the door chimes softly. He opens it, and there Tailgate is, looking determined and flushed.

It hasn't been that long since he left them at the bar. Long enough for a quickie, maybe, but Whirl doubts that's how Cyclonus rolls. 

Possibly he shouldn't think about how Cyclonus would _roll_. Scrap like that is what got him overinvested to begin with. "What do you want?" he asks Tailgate, ready to slam the door in his pretty little faceplate.

Tailgate comes in without asking and picks up the latest project. "What's that? It's pretty."

"Valifrax hourdial," Whirl says. He tries to append _And get your servos off it_ , but the words do not happen. Instead, he says, "It's almost finished."

"Oh! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt," Tailgate says. His optics are sparkling again, wide and blue. He reverently hands the hourdial to Whirl.

Whirl sets it on his work surface and sits by it, back turned to Tailgate. He can still feel Tailgate's stare at his back as his claws turn the hourdial this way and that. It's strangely easy to set the last few components in place.

"Hey, Whirl?" Tailgate says a moment later. "What's this?"

Whirl turns, and sees Tailgate holding the first adapter he made. "Call it a training piece," he says shortly. "Did you try the one I gave you?" He's half-curious, half just trying to change the subject.

Tailgate's faceplate heats up into a dull red. "Not yet." He gestures with the adapter. "This seems like it would fit me, too...?"

"Yeah," Whirl says. "It's an adapter for interfacing with an array like mine." Might as well say it. Have Tailgate throw away the thing in disgust, or whatever. "Like I said. It was a training piece."

"I." Tailgate stares at the adapter. "I need to go."

Of course he does. "Don't let me keep you." Whirl turns back to the hourdial and waits for sound of the door closing.

It's easy to finish the hourdial, and there's a bleak satisfaction in the familiar wrongness. With practiced motion, Whirl raises his hand to throw the hourdial.

"Wait!"

Whirl turns. Tailgate is still there, right behind him; it occurs to Whirl that he never heard him walking out. 

"Are you going to just throw that away?" Tailgate asks. "Why?"

"It's wrong," Whirl says, and regrets saying even that much. "It's useless scrap and it's my room, okay? I get to throw slag around if I want to."

Tailgate reaches with the hand that isn't still holding the adapter. "It's pretty. If you don't want it, can I have it?"

For a long moment, Whirl hesitates. The idea of putting that in Tailgate's hands, of giving him something that isn't right... well, it's not right.

But Tailgate says, "Please?" and Whirl does it anyway.

~~

The next evening neither Cyclonus nor Tailgate appear at Swerve's. Whirl attempts to drink enough to make up for their lost custom. 

~~

Whirl's work surface has been empty since Tailgate was at his habsuite. He sits at it and tries to think of something to make, anything, when his comm chimes.

It's a message from Tailgate, asking Whirl to come to his and Cyclonus's habsuite. It's not the first time Whirl has walked out to almost certain death, but it may be the last one; he does his best to treasure it.

He knocks. The door buzzes open for him, and he enters. 

He has to restart his optics before he's sure he's seeing correctly, but there it is: Tailgate with his port-covers open, the adapters Whirl made for him gleaming on top of his chest.

Adapters. Plural.

With effort, Whirl jerks his attention away from that sight and onto Cyclonus, who's just standing there with his arms folded. "Are you going to leave him hanging again?" Whirl asks.

"I'm not," Cyclonus says. "Are you?"

Whirl's rotors spin as he tries to form a reply.

Cyclonus carries on. "Unless we're mistaken. Perhaps you really did make that adapter as a training piece, and have no interest in Tailgate. In that case, you are free to leave, and we do not need to speak of this again."

Okay, that's enough for Whirl to mech up and open his own port covers. If there's one thing his life doesn't need, it's more unspoken relationship complications. 

Cyclonus, too, is opening up. Whirl glances from him to Tailgate and back again with greedy optics. His claws clack with wanting to grab.

Scrap it, he _can_. He was practically just handed an engraved invitation.

He grabs Tailgate by the back of the head, careful as he would be picking gears off the floor. Tailgate's wide optics stare up at him as Whirl pushes out a connector and links up.

The current is weak at first, barely anything but two bots standing in close proximity. Then Tailgate vents and sends a tentative pulse out.

Whirl's legs tremble.

Cyclonus takes his place on Tailgate's other side, the heat of his engine palpable between them. He grunts as he links into the adapter that Whirl made for them, and Whirl can't keep his optics off where the two of them are connected.

Then Tailgate sends a stronger current down his other adapter, the one _attached_ to Whirl, and Whirl squeaks.

It doesn't take him too long to get his bearings, and he gives back as good as he got. Next to him Cyclonus growls, and it makes Whirl's engine rev hotter to think Cyclonus might be getting an echo of Whirl's electro-pulse through Tailgate's frame. 

A moment later, Cyclonus grunts and a surge comes through the connection that nearly fries Whirl's circuits. He whimpers and answers with another surge, almost scared he'll make Tailgate overheat between them.

Tailgate is taking it like a champ, though, venting hot and humming but still so solid, accepting them, taking what they both have to give him and paying it back in spades.

Whirl is dizzy with the give and take of it. It's been so long since he interfaced, and he doesn't remember it ever being like this. He'd never had a partner wear something he made them like a gift, let alone interfaced through it. 

Cyclonus is powerful, pouring voltage into his connection with Tailgate, and Tailgate receives and amplifies before giving it all to Whirl, or so it feels. He's trying to push back, but it's so much, it's just so much.

Abruptly, he shoots three hard pangs through the connection, optics resetting as he overloads.

When his sensors come back online, he can feel residual shockwaves from where Cyclonus and Tailgate are still pulsing at one another, though only mildly: Tailgate has considerately set up shielding to keep Whirl from getting overstimulated.

Whirl withdraws, the connector still buzzing and sensitive. He shuts the port cover and turns to leave.

"Where do you think you're going?" Cyclonus grits out.

Whirl freezes. "I thought we were done here."

Cyclonus detaches from Tailgate with effort. "Do I have to drag you to the berth?"

Whirl doesn't answer, just stands there like a rusted heap of scrap until Tailgate says, "Come to us," and Whirl does. 

~~

The Valifrax hourdial looks nice on Tailgate's table. Maybe it's the angle. The world looks nicer in general from where he's lying, between Cyclonus and Tailgate. 

Tailgate follows Whirl's line of sight, and beams. "I'm really glad you gave it to me," he says.

"Sure thing," Whirl says. "You want messed up clocks, I'm your mech."

"You should make one for Cyclonus, too," Tailgate says with authority. "So he doesn't get jealous."

"I doubt that's going to be a problem," Cyclonus says, dry. 

Tailgate elbows him. "Do it," he tells Whirl, voice gone low and serious. "Make another clock, okay? For me."

Cyclonus stirs. "For me as well," he says, voice grave. 

What in the universe where they talking about, before they called Whirl to their room? Primus only knows. "I know what you're trying to do, and it's not working," Whirl says.

"It's totally working," Tailgate says. The kicker is, he's right. 

Whirl's only excuse is that it's hard to believe something you made isn't good enough when it's right there, ticking merrily at you and making other people happy. He's simply not strong enough to resist wanting, just a little, to try again. 

"Shut up," Whirl says, and cuddles up to them. He's already imagining the classic Tetrahexian piece he'll make for Cyclonus. It's going to be absolutely awful, and Whirl will enjoy every last cog of it.


End file.
